Monster
by LionsandGods
Summary: Castiel, driven by his own guilt, doesn't know how to deal with himself when he realizes how much he really betrayed the brothers. Takes place before the season six finale. Filled to the brim with angst.


Dean always thought the word "monster" sounded strange and foreign rolling off of Cas's tongue, especially when he used the word to describe himself. It didn't seem like a word that should be in the angel's dictionary, even when he was describing the things that Dean and Sam fought every day. It just didn't seem right. Sometimes they would be lying next to each other in silence; the dark seeping across Dean's eyes as he tried to fight off sleep while Cas's breathing echoed his, and he would say a small three word sentence that was always the opposite of what Dean thought about him. "I'm a monster," Cas would whisper, and Dean would roll over from his back toward him, pressing his face into the skin of his chest or shoulder or neck, whatever was closest, his hand cupping the side of the angel's face loosely. It was Dean's way of being close, his way of understanding all that Cas said to him.

Cas had always been planning the timing of those three, simple, little words without Dean even realizing. He would always be right about to drift off to sleep, too tired and too comfortable to argue or say anything back in a way of comfort. If it had been morning, he knew the reaction would be different, which is why he always said it when he did. He timed it down to the second. Cas wasn't saying it to search for comfort or to make the eldest Winchester kiss his skin in an apologetic way. He was just saying what Dean would find out eventually—soon, rather—and that was his way of telling him without an argument or heartbreak.

Dean, at the time before the inevitable unfolding, couldn't ever imagine being mad at Cas about anything significant, like making a deal with a demon or choosing a civil war over him. He couldn't imagine getting mad at him for anything besides leaving in the morning without saying goodbye because Cas didn't want to wake him, or how Cas sometimes gave him presents and Dean was suddenly flustered, taking them from his hands with a grunt of thanks, or the times whenever they would watch a movie and Cas would overanalyze the plot until Dean couldn't take it anymore, aggressively bringing his lips to his because he couldn't think of any other way to shut him up. Dean wasn't always angry about the last one, except for the time they were watching _Spinal Tap_ and it was his favorite part. But when Cas stopped coming by for a few weeks and wouldn't respond to the brothers' prayers, Dean's mind wandered about what could have been wrong. And of all the things his hunter mind could have thought of, he thought the opposite of what it truly was. He wondered if it was something he had done and if he could fix it, even though he never really apologized for his actions to anyone beside Sammy. He felt like Cas was slipping away and it was all his fault, but Cas wouldn't come by to tell him anything or dismiss his thoughts, so couldn't even be sure if what was happening between them _was_ his fault. All he wanted to do was tell Cas how much he loved him, especially since Dean was pretty sure the angel forgot what love was half the time.

Sam and Dean were in some sort of quiet understanding while all of this was happening and Dean was hiding a bottle of Jack Daniels under the driver's seat of the Impala at all times. They never really talked about Dean's relationship with Cas, but now, every once in a while, Sam could see a soft question forming in his brother's eyes, and he wondered if it was his way of trying to get the courage to ask him for help. But after Sammy had talked to Bobby about what had been happening based on some other hunter's reports, Sam wasn't entirely sure if he could help his brother out in exchange for watching his heart break in two. He knew what was happening wasn't Dean's fault, but Dean would want someone else to blame, then, some solid explanation that Sam couldn't possibly give.

Cas returned two weeks later to a hotel Sam and Dean were staying in one night when they were investigating a shape shifter case in Ohio. Sam was out getting dinner and a drink, and with the weight of Dean's worry and guilt of everything left unsaid growing heavier and heavier on his chest, he had stayed back at the hotel. Before Cas made himself visible, he debated leaving again once he saw how miserable Dean seemed. He smelled faintly of alcohol, and Cas could sense that he had started to carry around two bottles of Jack Daniels in the Impala instead of just one. He hadn't shaved in days, and a thin layer of scruff lined his features, making him look rougher than his expressions. His eyes sunk into his face with dark circles surrounding them, making him look exhausted and sickly, his hair sticking up everywhere from pulling and running his hands through it in frustration. Dean had stopped praying for help the third day of the two weeks, and had stopped praying for him to just come see him on the tenth. Sam had stopped, too. Dean found safety in _Pretty in Pink_ airing on TV that night, the bright hues of the cinematography making the room feel less lonely, but his heart heavier. The brightness reminded him of Cas, and for half a second the angel sensed the ache that overwhelmed Dean and he wondered if it was possible for humans to die of a broken heart, and if Dean was already halfway there.

Cas had Dean's attention immediately as he heard the flutter of wings enter the room and Cas stood in the corner near the bathroom, coat dirty with blood and dirt stains from the day's work. Dean sat up on his bed and ran a hand over his face, trying to check if he was dreaming. In the small depths of sleep over the past two weeks, he had dreamt of the angel coming to him a few times, and each dream started with an apology and always ended with him slipping through his fingertips again, leaving only the dark feathers of his wings. All of the things he wanted to express rushed over him, but he didn't quite know how to say them, so he bit his lip instead, watching Cas watch him from the dark of the corner.

"You stopped praying," Cas said in his gruff voice, which never really seemed that gruff to Dean until now.

"I didn't think you were listening," Dean said in a soft voice, as if he was confessing. An apology for something he didn't quite grasp yet.

But Cas shook his head and dropped it a bit, whispering under his breath, "I've always been listening for you, Dean."

The hunter moved his legs over the edge of the bed but didn't stand up, beckoning Cas with an opened hand instead. "Come here so I can see you. Come into the light."

His choice of words seemed a bit ironic to Cas and he resisted the urge to smile, taking a few steps toward him. "I don't have much time. I just didn't want you to worry."

He watched Dean's face change from being calm and stunned to immediately being confused and rushed. This wasn't a casual visit. This wasn't Cas explaining or apologizing, this was formal. This wasn't what Dean wanted. He stuttered slightly before getting ahold of what he wanted to say. "Wh—Cas, you have to give me a break here, I can't read your damn thoughts." His tone was sharp, his obvious frustration seeping through.

Despite being an angel, Cas could feel things. He felt loyalty toward the Winchesters, guilt about kissing Crowley and working with him, and each time he saw or thought about Dean, there was an ever-growing ache that burrowed itself inside of his chest and a hum in his brain. Upon further investigation in all the logs of human activities and emotions that the angels kept upstairs, he realized what he felt towards Dean was love. Pure, honest, unscientific, unexplainable, undeniable love. And now, standing in front of Dean's hotel bed with his hand in the hunter's hair, he could feel a different ache, as well as a yearn to tell him everything. But he knew he wouldn't understand. He couldn't understand. He was only human.

As he curled his fingers through Dean's hair and behind his ear, he could almost smile. Things felt so simple with one hand in Dean's hair, standing in front of him. Close enough to lean down and kiss, to breathe in and attempt to dominate, to feel his hips and legs brush his. And he knew he couldn't have things be that simple again. He felt an overwhelming need to preserve this moment in time, to pause it so the two of them could stay like this, except without all of the complicated emotions and lack of faith. "Cas…" Dean's breath caught in a whisper, and for a moment Cas thought that maybe he could feel what was coming, feel the storm and war raging, feel the goodbyes on the edge of his teeth. "Stay the night."

But the angel shook his head in return. "I don't have much time, Dean" He repeated. "I just came here to say—" He stopped. He had come to say so many things, and he suddenly realized not all of them could be said with words. So instead, he cupped Dean's face in his hands and kissed him on the mouth. He felt Dean inhale and exhale as if breathing him in, felt his body curl toward his, trying to hold on. And Cas was trying to hold on, too. He wanted to peel away the tiredness from Dean's mouth and eyes, wanted to feel the way he always felt him, skin to skin; wanted to take away the hidden bottles of alcohol and any trace they left on his breath, wanted to strip the fear, wanted to know he could be forgive and still so very much loved.

When they pulled back, Dean's lips were still parted, lingering slightly, like he was having trouble grasping what was really happening. "I'm a monster," Cas whispered and caressed Dean's face with his hand, feeling his stubble tickle his palm. "And one day, you'll agree. That's all I came here to say."

And then he was turning away and Dean was panicking, the tough exterior slipping off of him quickly as he began to slip off the bed, reaching for Cas, grabbing at his wrist and his coat, whatever he could reach. "Hey, come here," he pleaded. "Whatever this is, let Sammy and I help fix this. We can fix this."

The neediness and pain in his voice was too much for Cas to take and he turned back to Dean. He wished it didn't have to come to this. "You should sleep," the angel said; the gruffness in his voice returning as he touched the hunter's forehead with two straight fingers. And before Dean could argue, he was out cold. Cas moved Dean so he was lying horizontal across his bed and his head on his pillow. He took off his shoes, placing them neatly by the foot of his bed. Then he squeezed Dean's shoulder once, his hand fitting across the spot he had marked him so long ago when he dragged him out of hell.

Cas stood over him for a second, trying to make him feel everything he was trying so hard to say, like what he was doing, but more importantly _why_. The nagging feeling that always kept his mouth consciously shut about how Dean would never understand had returned, and he felt a lump form in the back of his throat. Even though he would insist—insist with his mouth, insist with his hands on Dean and his hands fumbling, insist with his tone and his movements—Dean was a stubborn bastard, and loyalty was always number one.

The angel could tell that over the past week, the hunter's loyalty to him was faltering unwillingly, and Sam's was nearly gone. Bobby had been conducting his own investigations through help of other hunters behind the brothers' backs, and the Cas had a feeling that ever since the conversation they had in Bobby's kitchen, the old man knew. Maybe not everything, but he was a hunter, too, and his mind could wander in all the right directions.

There was a sound as the door opened and shut and he turned suddenly, face to face with Sam. "Cas," Sam said his name, surprised. He titled his head and waited, because it looked like Sam might continue speaking, but he also looked like he didn't have the right grasp on what he wanted to say.

When he didn't continue, Cas spoke in return. "I'm sorry, " he said, trying not to let the pain seep into his eyes and voice, trying not to let on to what everything was really about. Sam's focus shifted to his brother, passed out on his bed, his body relaxed. Cas looked at him, too, and admired the way sleep seemed to strip away all of the rough edges of Dean, smoothing his features, while leaving behind only the bits that Cas loved and envied completely; his innocence and his human peace. He took him in like it was the last time he was ever going to see him before looking at Sam, who had now moved closer.

"He knows you love him," Sam said, somewhat encouraging. "Things are going to be okay, right, Cas?"

And for the first time, Cas wasn't sure if he could give him a straight answer. He wasn't even sure if he could lie. And peering into Sam's eyes, he knew it would be counterproductive. If he did, it would be passed onto Dean, and Dean would break for sure once he knew. He couldn't say anything without falling into that final open grave, even if he left them with some peak of uncertain hope.

For the first time in a long time, Cas didn't know what to do. He ran his hand through his hair and looked down, afraid to see Sam watch his human actions. Angels were supposed to _know_. They were supposed to be undoubtedly certain and they were supposed to stand by that decision, because they were also supposed to have faith. But Cas wasn't even sure if he believed in himself anymore.

He wasn't sure if this could ever be the same as winning. The battles were won, sure, but the angel didn't feel like the great general or servant his father and brothers had taught him to be. He even doubted it when the words rolled off Balthazar's lips drunkenly one night while the two of them sat on top of a roof across from the Winchesters' hotel for the night. His brother had said, "You probably won't believe me, Castiel, but you're a real winner and a real friend to those damned humans." But Cas didn't feel like a winner. Not that night, and not this night, either.

There were tears in his eyes when he picked his head back up to look at Sam, his breath tight and guarded against the sobs in his throat, and he watched Sam's face start to crumble and break as he pieced little parts together. "I'm sorry," Cas whispered, because he was sure he was going to fall apart, too. "Tell…" He blinked and swallowed his cries. "Tell Dean I'm sorry." He stumbled forward and clasped a hard hand on the Winchester's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Sam." He allowed Sam to put his arms around him for half a second before his wings fluttered and he was gone for good. The only trace of him ever being there were the few tear stains on the room's carpet.


End file.
